


Love, and a Cough, Are Not Concealed

by gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)



Series: Padi Hawke [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:50:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor
Summary: Amor tussisque non celantur. Love, and a cough, are not concealed.In which Hawke doesn't go home, even though she probably should.





	Love, and a Cough, Are Not Concealed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aeducans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeducans/gifts).



It’s early, the light still grey through the windows of the Chantry. The doors are never closed to those who are in need, but this time of day is among the quietest: those who spent the night for want of a bed are on their way, those seeking help by daylight not yet arrived. 

This is Sebastian’s favorite time of day for contemplation. When he was younger, he’d preferred to sit with his thoughts in the evening, but as he’s aged, his evenings have ended sooner. There is no wrong time, Mother Elthina had reminded him, once and again, as long as the work is done. She had also reminded him that the work need not be done with idle hands. This is how he finds himself sweeping the aisles of the Chantry when Hawke stumbles in.

She is alone, unarmed and unarmored, instead wrapped in a deep green cloak with a wide hood that falls down over her face when she leans her back against the closed door. One foot slides forward, her boot dark, wet, and it appears to start a chain reaction to bring the rest of her down to the floor He lets the broom fall against a pew and starts forward, only for her to catch herself a moment later, as if startled to save herself by the noise he’s made.

Hawke pushes back the hood as he approaches, shaking off wet flakes of half-melted snow. Beneath the cloak she’s wearing heavy breeches, tight on her legs, and at least one long tunic covered by a thick sweater that’s far too large for her. A scarf coils around her neck up to her chin, though she starts to unwrap it as soon as she straightens, fingers red with cold where they aren’t covered by her gloves.

“I didn’t think anyone would be here yet--”

“Are you all right, Hawke--”

They start at the same time, her embarrassment shying away from his concern, even as she speaks. She laughs, more an exhale with intent than anything, and looks away, tries and fails to find something to rest her gaze on that isn’t him.

“I’m fine. I just wanted to get out of the weather, and I thought it would be empty.” She stops and looks up at him, blinking, wide-eyed, but not enough to keep him from seeing the dark circles. “Not that I mean that no one comes here, I just meant this time of day--”

“Why did you come here instead of going home?”

She picks at a hole in the scarf, and with her eyes down he can see how her lashes sparkle, the pink of the tip of her nose. She’s been out in the cold for a while. 

“Has something happened at your home, that you can’t stay there?” He ducks his head, moves to try to keep eye contact, but she is doing her level best not to let him see.

“No, no, it’s fine there, it’s fine, it’s just…”

Sebastian reaches out and sets his hand on her cheek, finally stopping her erratic search for something to look at. The first brush of her skin in cold, but far too quickly, she’s warm under his touch.

“How long have you been outside?”

She takes a deep breath, eyes falling closed. She swallows. “What time is it?”

He can’t keep listening to her without offering some sort of assistance. She seems reluctant to stand when he takes her by the elbow to lead her away from the door.

“Come on, we’re going to the kitchen. It’s warmer.”

She brings a fist to her mouth, but then seems to think better of it, though she shakes a little, only for a moment as she follows him through the Chantry. The nave is open for visitors, as are some of the upper chambers, but some areas are restricted for those members who work at the Chantry itself. The kitchen is one such area, but Hawke is no ordinary visitor, and at this time of day there are only a couple other people there. Sebastian holds the door open for her, and the Sisters take their leave quickly when they see who he’s escorted in.

The room is far warmer than the rest of the Chantry, especially in the mornings. The scent of bread baking meets them as soon as the door opens, and there are fresh loaves resting on the wooden counter top in the center of the room. 

“Here, sit.” He gestures to a table next to one of the ovens, but she just looks from him to it and back, brows furrowed. “Go, Hawke. Sit down.”

He sets a hand on her back and guides her, gentle but firm, towards the table, watching until she’s sitting. She opens her cloak and shrugs it off her shoulders to hang over the back of the chair, and for a moment he considers bringing her a blanket, but decides against it, instead taking one of the towels hanging from the oven door and setting it around her shoulders. She pulls it tighter as if on instinct, and again he sees the little shake, her shoulders coming up. She shakes her head, and it passes. 

He busies himself with tea, and bread, butter, jam, all with glances towards her in between. She’s unwrapped the scarf and set it in her lap, and as he watches, she seems to wake up from the chilled half-sleep she’d been in when she stumbled into the Chantry. She turns in her seat, holding her hands out towards the oven to warm them, and when he sets the plate down in front of her, she smiles at him, real and alert, though she still looks pale. 

“When were you home last?” He asks as he settles in across from her, his hands wrapped around his own mug of tea. It takes her a moment to reply, her mouth full of warm bread with jam - a favorite breakfast when she can get it, he recalls. 

She swallows, and again her shoulders twitch, and when she looks at him she’s embarrassed. “I… guess I went for a walk on the Wounded Coast yesterday.” She clears her throat, again, then takes a sip of tea as if fighting the need to clear it once more. “I needed to think, and I didn’t want to be in the city, and--”

“And you thought going alone, with no armor, to somewhere that mercenaries and bandits camp was the best solution?” Sebastian can’t pretend to understand what would send her to the coast of all places. Even if she didn’t want to be in the city, there are less dangerous paths to wander to clear one’s head.

She flushes a deeper shade and tips her head down, almost talking into her mug. “ _AndersandIhadafight_.”

Sebastian’s eyes go wide, and he feels himself sit up in the chair, chastises himself for his reaction even as he reacts. “Hawke, did he hurt you? All you all right?” He glances at the kitchen door as if he expects the mage to come through it at mention of his name. He wants to tell himself that he’s being unfair to Anders, to ask such questions, but he knows the man is troubled, and that whatever it is that plagues him, it’s been getting worse. 

Hawke shakes her head, dismisses him with a wave of her hand. “No, it’s not… no, I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” he replies. “Not if it’s kept you out on the Wounded Coast overnight. I don’t… mean to pry, I know it’s not my place, but…” But it’s not his place, and he doesn’t know how to ask the question in his mind. 

“Can we maybe not talk about it?” She asks nonchalantly, but when she looks at him her eyes are almost desperate. “If I promise he didn’t hurt me, can we not?” 

And again she tenses and relaxes, swallows, before this time finally giving in and coughing into her fist. The fit takes over her and she turns from the table, curling in on herself. 

“I thought so,” Sebastian sighs, slipping from his own seat to crouch in front of her. Her skin is hot under his touch, and eyes that had been bright are now glassy, watering from the effort of coughing.

“There’s elfroot in the tea, it’ll help,” he offers as she rights herself, leaning on the table and taking another slice of bread. “Drink it all.”

She takes a deep drink this time, grimacing as it goes down. He’s not sure if it’s too hot for her, or if he should have added more honey, but she does it again, so he doesn’t ask, just pushes the little jar of honey across the table in case she should want it.

“This jam is really good,” she mutters between bites. Sebastian hadn’t known what to say to break the silence, so he’s glad to hear her speak. 

“I’ll be sure to tell Sister Gertrude, she’ll be pleased to hear it.” He sits back in his chair. “The bread, however, is mine.”

Hawke pauses her chewing and looks up at him, eyes wide, then down at the bread, then back, her bite tucked into her cheek. “You?”

He nods, smiling a little. 

“Wow,” she mutters. She gets through another bite before the coughing comes back, leaving her red-faced and trembling.

“All right,” he sighs. “I’m glad you like the bread, but you need rest. You can stay here if you like, or do you want me to help you get home?” He considers his next words. “Do you think he’ll be there if you go home?”

She shrugs with one shoulder. “It was dark when I went by. He’s probably at the clinic.”

She stands as if she’s said nothing out of the ordinary, wrapping her scarf once around her neck again and bundling her cloak over one arm. After a moment’s contemplation, she takes the half-mug of tea with her as well.

“Hawke, you’re sick. You have a fever and you’ve been out all night.” They pause at the door again, her bent over coughing as Sebastian plucks the mug from her hand to keep it from spilling. He steers her towards the stairs, a hand hovering at her back as she climbs, slow, one hand on the banister, a far cry from when he’s seen her bound up them two at a time to come talk to him or Mother Elthina.

“I don’t understand. You know you’re not well, and you know you can go home. You-- you have to go past your estate to come here.”

He’s worried about her for a number of reasons now, not the least of which that he can’t figure out what she was thinking. 

“I heard there was good bread here,” she replies, but with none of the spark that such a comment would have if she was herself. 

“Hawke--”

“I’d never seen you in your robes, so I thought maybe if I came early--”

“ _Hawke_.”

He stops outside the door to his room, and she stops as well, turning to look at him. Again, there’s something in her eyes, a question, or a request, perhaps. Something else she doesn’t want to talk about, then.

“The Maker works in mysterious ways, Sebastian. Can we… can we leave it at that? Please?”

He reaches past her to open the door, shaking his head but still, it’s an agreement to her terms. That the Maker should have brought her to the Chantry to help with her illness is difficult to argue against, but he’s not convinced that that’s the answer, or not the only one, not least because it came too quickly from her.

She steps back into the room, tossing her cloak over the back of his chair before collapsing onto the bed, still fully dressed. 

Sebastian sets the mug of tea on the table by his bed, but the soft sounds of her sleeping come to him before he’s even left the room. It will be cold when she wakes, but the elfroot will still help if she needs it. He suspects the worst of it will be banished with a good night’s - or day’s - sleep, however, and so he pulls the door closed behind him and returns to his earlier chore, though he finds his morning’s contemplation is no longer about the Chant.


End file.
